Into the Light
by Clarissa Gavin
Summary: A sequel to Trauma Team. Though unjustly imprisoned and destined to live out his life in a freezer, he holds no hate in his heart. With friends on the outside, working off his sentence became a very real possibility. But when no one visits for weeks...
1. Snake in a Silver Corvette

**Title:** Snake in a Silver Corvette

**Rating:** K+/T for language

**Summary:** He who cannot lie does not know what truth is. - Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

**A/N:** I'd like to call this a sequel to Making Progress, but that is not entirely correct. This is not the story of Robert Sartre, the boy. This is the story of Prisoner CR-S01, the man. This is a story of rediscovery, of trying to remember. This is a tale of learning to live and learning to love, even in the face of hate. Put simply, this is the aftermath of Trauma Team. No knowledge of Making Progress is needed to understand this fic, although I highly reccomend reading it anyway. Speaking of MP, an update will be coming soon. It's a Festivus miracle! This chapter is dedicated to Robert, for choosing me to tell his story. Spoilers abound.

P.S. My favorite line in this entire piece is in paragraph 42 (Hey, it's the meaning of life!). Review if you agree.

Snake = A serpent-like individual who stops at nothing to fulfill his own motives, while usually under the disguise of being considerate to others. [Urban Dictionary]. In this context, a derogatory name for lawyer.

**Disclaimer:** Trauma Team (c) Atlus, and I do not own the characters/plot thereof. I do own the original plot of this story, and all original characters. This story may not be reproduced under any circumstances (expect for personal, private use) without my express permission.

* * *

A silver Corvette sped down U.S. Route 1 in southern Maine. The man inside would have been listening to the radio, but there was no broadcasting tower for many miles. He was driving in the middle of nowhere. An endless expanse of trees sped by the window. A charming female voice from his GPS alerted him that he would soon be reaching his destination. The car made a sharp turn onto a well-hidden road marked only by an eroded brick sign reading "Maine State Prison: 1824-2002".

At the end of a lengthy, twisting road, (which the man in the car thought was wholly unnecessary) there was a cracked parking lot. At the front of the parking lot, Maine State Prison loomed. It wasn't at all impressive. It was comprised of a collection of tall, flat brick buildings with concrete roofs, surrounded by high barbed wire fences occasionally punctuated with guard towers. Everything was faded brown and gray.

The Corvette pulled into a spot mostly covered by decaying pine needles, but at least in the shade. Even though it was the middle of August, the man who stepped out of the car wore a smart black coat. He held a slim leather briefcase with gleaming clasps and a well-worn handle. A pair of guards, standing at either side of the iron door that was the entrance to the prison, scowled and watched him intently. The man ran a hand back through his slick, black hair and flashed a charming smile at the guards. He approached the door, and the click-clack of his shoes echoed on the sun-baked concrete. The guards gave him a skeptical look and stepped in front of the door. The man laughed softly and shook his head disapprovingly.

"Now, now, boys. Why so hostile?"

"Who do you think you are, bub?" the guard on the right grumbled.

"Anthony Craft, attorney at law. I'm here to speak to my client." He glanced at his watch and frowned petulantly. "Now if you'll excuse me, time is money, especially for my client. You wouldn't want to waste his money, would you?"

"Haven't heard 'bout anyone hirin' a snake."

"Of course you haven't," Anthony said snidely. "Prisons don't retain reptiles to represent them, now do they?"

The guard growled at him, but stepped aside, and the other guard did as well. Anthony strolled in the prison.

Sterile white walls and glaring fluorescent lights greeted him as he entered. Directly in front of him, a bear of a man in dark blue uniform sat behind a long, straight desk. Anthony strolled to the desk and placed his elbows on it, leaning forward. The guard behind the desk was slumped in his chair, sleeping. Anthony coughed loudly, and the guard opened his eyes. Anthony flicked a card onto the desk. The guard squinted to read it. At last, he looked up at Anthony, blinking slowly.

"Folks here don't need no lawyers. Try a county jail, snake."

"I've already been retained. There's to be an appeal, you see.

"Ain't heard nothing 'bout an appeal."

"Not yet."

The guard scoffed and shook a computer mouse.

"Who you here to see?"

"Prisoner number CR-S01."

The guard dropped the mouse and peered up at Anthony like he was insane.

"S01 don't get no visitors."

"I'm his attorney."

"Ain't no one hired an attorney. 'Specially him."

"I've been retained." Anthony set his briefcase on the desk and cracked it open. He held out a crisp sheet of paper. "Here's the defense request."

The guard ignored the paper. "S01 don't get no visitors."

"May I speak to Mr. Ian Holden?"

"Holden ain't here no more."

"I'm sorry, I was under the impression that I would be speaking to Ian Holden about prisoner CR-S01," he lied. "Who should I speak to?"

"No one. Told you, no visitors."

"Who's in charge of him, if not Holden?"

"Agent Sophia Delora."

"May I speak to her, please?"

"No. She's busy."

"Too busy to chop the head off of a snake? I must tell you, sir, I'm aggressive, territorial, and quite venomous."

The guard sighed and stood up heavily. "I'd like to chop yer head off myself, ya damn bastard." He sulked into a back room. Anthony smiled to himself. A few moments later, the guard came back. "She'll be here in a sec, if she ain't busy."

"Thank you." Anthony looked around, and, spying a row of chairs against one of the walls, took a seat. 'A sec' turned out to be nearly twenty minutes, but he didn't mind. At last, a tall slender woman emerged from a room behind the desk. He hopped up to meet her.

"Ah, Ms. Delora-"

"That's Agent Delora to you. Get in here." She turned around and marched right back through the door she'd entered from. He ran after her. She silently led him past rows and rows of prisoners, some of whom called out to her with lewd names. At last, they came to a bare hall with a single steel door at the end of it, and two hulking men guarding the door. She yanked open a metal door built into the side of the hall, and ushered him into a room he could easily have missed. It was an office (hers, he presumed) and it looked as though she had recently moved there. She walked behind him and stood blocking his way out, her fists resolutely planted on her hips.

"Craft, huh? What do you want with the prisoner?"

"Please, Agent Delora, call me Anthony. As I told the guards, I've been retained in his defense."

One word. "How?"

"You can see for yourself," he replied, handing her the defense request.

She glanced at the names on the sheet. "Cunningham? Wasn't that the scraggly looking doctor who came around here once?"

"He is a bit scraggly, isn't he?"

Agent Delora scrutinized the request, and was finally convinced of its authenticity. She didn't seem happy about it.

"He's guilty, Craft. That's all you need to know. If I were you, I wouldn't take this case."

"It's none of my business if he's guilty or innocent, now is it? I'm only here to get him out of jail."

"You're this close to getting punched in the face. And I'd never get so much as a slap on the wrist for it."

"What's a punch in the face in the name of justice?" Delora was shaking with anger. He quickly redirected the conversation. "Tell me, where has Holden gone?"

Delora smiled smugly. "He's been reassigned. It seems his skills were needed elsewhere."

"His skills of sympathy for the innocent?"

"He should never have gotten assigned to this case. He was too personally involved. He let it blind him. Same with that Cunningham."

"Is that why you refused him access to S01?"

"That kid is a terrorist. He deserves to starve to death in that freezer, and then rot in Hell. No one's allowed to see him anymore."

"Except me, of course. Seeing as how I'm his attorney."

"Listen, Craft. I'm overseeing that kid now, and I'm with the FBI. I make all the decisions. You better start playing nice if you ever want in."

"Oh, I haven't been nice? I sincerely apologize, Agent Delora. You're being delightfully uncooperative, aren't you? I can see why they put you here instead of Holden. I'll be sure to let everyone know how immensely uncooperative you're being. You might even earn a commendation."

Agent Delora screamed and grabbed his collar. Surprisingly strong for her build, she lifted him clean off the floor. "I could choke you to death right here, and easily blame it on the kid. No one would ever know. After all, there's no one to hear you scream."

"You don't honestly believe that, do you?"

Delora's face twisted with rage. She threw Anthony against the wall and spat on the floor in front of him. "I'm not afraid to get blood on my hands, you asswipe. Don't try me again."

"May I see my client now, please?"

She opened the door to her office and glared at him as she stepped out. He followed a safe distance behind her. She planted her thumb on a scanner mounted to the door. A mechanical voice chimed, "Access granted, Agent Delora" as the doors slid open. She shoved him inside the cell.

"See you in an hour, Craft. Have fun with the murderer."


	2. Twisting Arms

**Title:** Twisting Arms

**Rating:** K+/T for dark themes

**Summary:** People who love sausage and people who believe in justice should never watch either of them being made. - Otto von Bismarck.

**A/N:** I love this story. It's the best thing I've ever written, if I may be so bold. Seriously, though, I don't know what else to say. Don't expect too much from these author notes from now on. This chapter is dedicated to Snake from 999.

**[LOOK]** Having replayed the Seventh Chapter, I noted that this story branches from the cannon timeline. Specifically, after Stolen Memories (CR's liver mission), when he is fleeing with Maria, he claims to have regained his memories and breifly describes what he knows about the Rosalia Virus, though he says that he remembers much more. For the purpose of this fic, that did not happen. CR has a few memories of the Rosalia Virus and can treat it effectively. This is the extent of his knowledge. This change is vital to the plot of this story, as will become clear later.

* * *

Anthony Craft stumbled forward into the cell. He managed not to fall, but he inhaled sharply, and coughed violently as freezing air filled his lungs. He stood bent at the waist, his hands on his knees, catching his breath. The steel door slammed shut behind him. He heard the faint rustling of chains, and he quickly stood up, trying to retain a modicum of dignity. He smoothed his greasy hair with his hand and cleared his throat.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw a young man in a white prison uniform watching him warily from a bench in the back of the cell.

Anthony smiled shakily. "It's freezing in here, isn't it?"

"Almost," the prisoner answered in all seriousness.

Anthony raised his eyebrows. "Almost?"

"33 degrees Fahrenheit."

He bent over again, laughing hysterically. "He didn't tell me you didn't know how to take a joke!"

CR-S01 suddenly looked alarmed. "Who?"

Anthony took several deep breaths to calm himself and wiped tears from the pits of his eyes. "I think I like you, kid. What's your name?"

"I don't know."

"So, you really don't remember, then? That's alright, Cunningham said you might not know."

"Dr. Cunningham sent you?"

"Yeah. I'm Anthony Craft, sna-, er, lawyer."

"Why do I need a lawyer?"

"To get you out of jail, of course. You don't want to spend the rest of your life freezing your ass off in here, do you? I mean, damn. Cunningham said it would be cold, but not this cold."

CR-S01 stood up, and Anthony could see that he was chained at both his wrists and ankles. "I'm working off my sentence."

"Not anymore. You haven't had a patient in weeks, have you?"

"N-no. But-"

"That's what I thought."

"Agent Holden said it might take a while to find the right patient."

"You haven't seen Holden in weeks. You haven't seen anyone in weeks."

CR opened his mouth, but seemed to have nothing to say. He shuffled forward, first the right foot, then the left, being careful not to trip over his chains. The scuffling of his shoes on the metal floor was eerie in the silence. When he was just a few feet away from Anthony, he stopped. He chose his next words very carefully.

"Where is Agent Holden?"

"He's been reassigned."

CR was taken aback. "Why?" he blurted.

"He was being too cooperative. The feds don't want to see you free, kid. That's why it took so long for Holden to find jobs. He couldn't just pick up any old surgery; he had to find difficult ones. Otherwise, people would start getting suspicious. Apparently, he made a mistake."

"He... did that for me?"

"Yeah."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know."

"Will he be alright?"

"I guess so. Aw, kid, don't look like that. It's not like he got fired. At any rate, he knew what he was getting into, even if you didn't. Honestly, this is the best thing that could have happened. Holden still has a job, and now, because of me, you get to be free months, no, years! before you would if you were still working off your sentence."

"What about Dr. Cunningham?"

"I was getting to that. Listen, why don't you sit down? You're not being interrogated. I'm here to help."

CR seemed skeptical, and not at all reassured. Still, he shuffled back to his bench. Anthony looked around the cell as he strode to the bench as well. It was about the size of the living room in his flat in Portland. There was a metal bunk with a thin matress and no blanket chained to one wall, and on the back wall was the bench, which was bolted to the floor. The only light came from a bare light bulb far above their heads. There were no windows, or openings of any kind. He looked back at the door, and he could barely make out the lines that distinguished it from the wall. The walls and floor, which were fashioned from dull metal, seemed to flow seamlessly into each other. He sat down next to CR and placed his briefcase between them.

"You haven't seen Cunningham because they haven't let him in. They haven't let anyone in. Really, it's just one woman. Agent Sophia Delora, of the FBI."

"Did she replace Agent Holden?"

"You're smarter than you look," Anthony joked, but CR was not amused. "Look, they put her here because she's so stubborn. She thinks you're guilty, and she hates you with a passion. I barely managed to get her to let me talk to you. But now that I'm here, you're not going to be in prison for much longer. Got it?"

"Yes."

"Any more questions, before we talk business?"

CR paused, fidgeting with the chains of the cuffs on his wrists. "What day is it?"

"Thursday, August 16."

CR's shoulders slumped and he sighed.

"It's pretty hard to keep track of time in here, kid, I understand. Don't worry about it. Now, we've got a little less than an hour, so let's make the most of it." Anthony popped open his briefcase. "I've done a bit of research, but outside of the tabloids, there's not much about Cumberland. That may actually work to our advantage-"

"I'm innocent."

"Yeah, I know, Cunningham told me. But you've got to think about this realistically. Who's going to believe that?"

CR glared at Anthony, his red eyes like daggers boring holes into Anthony's head.

"You're a smart kid. You know more about this case than anyone, even me, at this point. Think; how innocent do you look right now?"

"I'm innocent until proven guilty."

Anthony barked out a laugh. "That's a good one. You know, if you weren't so naive, I'd say you'd make a fine lawyer in your own right. I'll let you in on a little secret. Law isn't about justice. Law is about loopholes. Law is about breaking fingers and crushing toes." CR looked at him with something like incredulous anger on his face. "I've been in this business since I was born. My old man was a prosecutor. He didn't care if you were guilty; that was the cops' job. He did what he was supposed to do, and he did whatever it took to get his verdict. It's none of my businness if you're guilty or innocent. My job is to see things their way, and twist some arms until they see it my way. I'm damn good at twisting arms. That's why Cunningham hired me. He doesn't like me, and you don't have to, either, but until this is over, you have to see things my way. I'd rather not twist your arm."

CR's mouth was a thin line as he considered what Anthony had said. At last, he spoke. "Why did you become a defense attorney?"

"What do you mean?"

"If your father was a prosecutor."

"Being a prosecutor is a thankless job. My old man was murdered by a psychopath, some wackjob he was prosecuting. That's why I'm a defense attorney. It's the winning side. Sure, people hate me, but those people have morals. Murderers don't have those."

"That's... terrible."

"Don't I know it." Anthony glanced at his watch. Half an hour had passed. If he was going to get any information out of this kid, he had to do it fast. "Listen, I'm sorry for destroying your faith in the American justice system. Why don't you tell me your side of the story? I know I said that I have to make them see things my way, but if you really are innocent, then your way is part of my way." He smiled slyly. "Besides, if I talk any more, my lungs are going to freeze."


	3. Playing With Ants

**Title:** Playing With Ants

**Rating:** K+ for awkward Cunningham

**Summary: **I don't mean to make you nervous, but unfortunately I have to. - Eugene Ormandy

**A/N:** Surprise, surprise! It's the third chapter! Enjoy, and be sure to review, 'cause I really want to know what you think. I'm already churning out the next chapter. I'm telling you, guys, this is great. This is the fastest I've ever written anything, and I've never felt so alive. This chapter is dedicated to (and my Festivus present for) Vorel Laraek. I know it's not as good as a legit Borders bookshelf, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.**  
**

* * *

"Good afternoon, Mr. Craft." Anthony's secretary, Julie, smiled at him as he entered. She took off her wireless headset and set it down gently. "How was your trip?"

"Fine," Anthony grumbled, but his harsh tone relaxed as he looked at Julie's shining face. She was gorgeous. "Anything happen?"

"Mr. Peterson called. He said it was urgent."

"Get Jeff on that."

"He specifically requested you, Mr. Craft."

"I've got a job."

"Have you decided to take Mr. Cunningham's case?"

He winked at her. "That's not really Mr. Peterson's business, is it?"

Julie giggled. "Certainly not, Mr. Craft. I'll send Mr. Cole, then. What about the rest of your appointments?"

"You know me too well, Jules." Anthony walked around the table and squeezed Julie's shoulder affectionately. "I'll keep today's appointments, but cancel everything after that. I'll be in Boston within a week."

"Of course." A faint ringing was heard from the earpiece of Julie's headset. She tucked it back in and pushed a button on the phone on her desk. "Craft and Co. Law Offices. How can I help you?" A few seconds later, she pressed another button on the phone and turned to Anthony. "It's Mr. Cunningham. Are you busy?"

"Tell him I'm in a meeting. Put him on hold for a few minutes so I can settle down."

"Yes, sir." She pushed the button again. "Mr. Craft is in a meeting at the moment, but if you'd like to hold, he'll be out shortly."

Anthony headed back into his office. He sat heavily in his swivel chair and spun to face the large window. He pulled the blinds back and stared out at the gray Portland skyline. Finally, he turned around, swept a few papers off his desk, and plopped his briefcase down in front of him. He stood up and strolled to the door. "Put him on, Jules." Julie nodded and Anthony shut the door. He turned his phone to speaker and sat on the side of his desk.

"Hello? Mr. Craft?"

"Good afternoon, Mr. Cunningham."

Anthony could hear Gabriel's flustered sigh. "So, um..."

"I met with Mr. Sartre today."

"You did?" Gabriel's voice was both excited and relived. "Wait. Sartre?"

"Yes. This is my first amnesiac client, but even he needs a name. He's the son of one Albert Sartre. Were you unaware?"

"N-no, but... I'd never thought of it before."

"Well, that's why you hired me, isn't it?"

Gabe sighed defeatedly. "Y-yeah."

"I must say that this case has piqued my interest, especially after talking to Mr. Sartre. However, I still have one question."

"What is it?"

Anthony leaned closer to the phone, though he knew Gabriel couldn't see him. It made him feel dramatic. "Why, Mr. Cunningham? Why have you taken it upon yourself to get this man out of prison?"

"Well, I, uh, I-"

"His is certainly a tale to be pitied. He has no family, or at least no memories of them, and very few friends. But you must understand, in my line of work, it's rare to see selflessness such as yours."

Anthony heard labored breathing on the other end of the line. He wasn't really expecting an answer, but he waited a few minutes for effect. He loved toying with his clients. Eventually, he continued.

"I suppose that's really none of my business, though, is it? I apologize for being so forward."

It took a moment for Gabe to regain his composure. "It's alright... I guess..."

"At any rate, I'm glad you called. I'm willing to take your case, but before I do, there are a few things of which I feel I must inform you."

Gabriel Cunningham waited patiently.

"My services don't come cheap-"

"That's fine!" Gabe interrupted. He was practically shouting. "I'll pay. I'll pay anything." He sounded calmer now, but Anthony could tell he was struggling to keep his voice down.

"And, as I'm sure you're aware, the tensions surrounding this case run incredibly high. People will be angry with me and Mr. Sartre, and I cannot guarantee your anonymity."

"I understand."

"And you're absolutely okay with that?"

Gabe swallowed nervously. "Yes. Yes, I am. I'm sure."

Suddenly, there was a female voice on Gabe's end, but distance garbled the words. "Shut up, RONI! Tell Esha I'm busy!" The female voice spoke again. "I'm on the phone! Can't she see that?" Another pause. "I know that, you stupid computer!" A fist banging angrily on glass and metal. "If she comes in here-"

"Mr. Cunningham, if you're busy, we can continue this conversation another time."

Gabriel gasped, and there was a loud rustling, like a stack of papers falling to the floor. "Oh! Er, yeah. Sorry about that. Yeah, I'm busy. Will you, um, still take the case?"

"Of course."

"Okay, uh, I guess I'll call you back later, then."

The call ended. Anthony stood up and stretched. He was grinning ear to ear. He loved putting on that sophisticated lawyer act. It confused the hell out of people, and making Cunningham nervous was like playing with ants; easy and sadistically satisfying. Still, every time he talked with that hoity-toity attitude, he felt like he needed to wash his mouth out with soap. He fell back into his chair and put Julie on speaker. "Jules, be a dear and get me an espresso. I need to wash the pompous taste out of my mouth."

"Yes, sir."

With a flourish, Anthony turned on his computer. The LCD screen flickered to life. He had nearly two hours until his next appointment. He cracked his knuckles. This was going to be fun.


	4. So It Begins

**Title: **So It Begins**  
**

**Rating:** T for dark/suggestive themes

**Summary:** We hate some persons because we do not know them; and will not know them because we hate them. - Charles Caleb Colton

**A/N:** And now it really gets good. Cookies to anyone who can tell me the significance of the location of this chapter.

So help me God, if you can't stand Gabriel/CR-S01, don't read my fic.

* * *

CR was sleeping when the cell doors opened. He was curled on his side, his hands under his head like a pillow. It meant the chains on the handcuffs dug into his neck, but at least he didn't have to put his ear on the cold metal bunk. When he heard footsteps, he didn't sit up, but craned his neck slightly so he could see over his shoulder. He couldn't see much since he had just woken up, but he thought there was a group of large figures standing near the doors. Three of the figures approached, and CR could see that they were guards in uniform. They were all glaring at him with disgust.

"Prisoner CR-S01," the middle guard said, poking CR with a iron baton. "Get up."

CR blinked and hesitated, confused. The two guards to the sides of the one with the baton waved rifles threateningly in the air.

"I said get up." The baton guard poked CR again, this time much more roughly.

CR sat up. The guards all watched him very carefully.

"Hands on your head."

He obeyed.

"Now stand up."

He did so, and the two men with rifles stepped behind him. They nudged him in the back with their rifles.

"Follow me. Nothing funny. They'll shoot."

Baton guard walked toward the doors. CR followed him slowly, trying not to make any sudden movements. At the doors, six more guards joined them, forming a circular perimeter around the three leading him. Over the shoulder of the guards in front of him, CR thought he saw someone with long blonde hair.

They walked to the end of the hall that led to his cell. The doors opened, and they continued down another hall. CR could hear other people outside the ring of guards. He began to slow down.

One of the men with a rifle whacked his neck. "Faster, bitch."

That aroused several snickers from the sides of the hall. CR realized that he was hearing other prisoners. The walls had to be lined with their cells. He stepped up his pace.

For all the prisoners he knew they must be passing, the hall was eerily quiet. Every sound was quickly stifled. As they neared the end of the hall, a lascivious voice called out.

"Look at little lost Delora, with all her guards to protect her from the big, bad terrorist," a man crooned. "Look at little lost Delora, taking her big, bad doggy for a walk. Where are you taking him, Delora?"

CR heard the sickening crack of skull on brick. "Shut up."

The man cackled, and CR smelled blood. "Little lost Delora!" he sang. "Little lost Delora! Delora's kid, Delora's kid, going for a ride!"

The crack again. "Shut up."

"Where ya going, Delora's kid? We'll miss you, Delora's kid. But we'll especially miss little lost Delora. Little lost Delora!"

A third crack. "Shut up! Do you want to die?"

The man's taunting grew faint as he passed out.

CR was led into the lobby of the prison, into a back room, and through another door. He looked up. They were outside. He stared at the blue sky, dotted with clouds, but it was too bright, and soon his eyes ached. The guards herded him into the back of a van. He had just enough time to catch sight of the words 'FBI Prisoner Transport' on the side. He sat on a bench towards the front of the van, but separated from the driver's seat by a thick metal partition with a rectangular grate at the top. The two guards with rifles followed him in. The sat on benches at each side of the vehicle. The doors slammed shut and locked, and the guards placed their rifles in their laps. Two people got into the front of the van, and it rumbled as the driver turned the keys in the ignition. They began to drive.

Thirty minutes later, CR thought they merged onto a highway. The van had sped up significantly, and the road was smoother. He still had his hands on the back of his head. He opened his mouth to speak.

"What do you want, S01?" the guard growled.

"May I, uh, put my hands down?" He shook the chains a bit to make his point.

"Agent Delora?"

A woman in the front of the van made a noncommittal grunt which the guard took to mean yes.

"In your lap, then."

CR carefully brought his hands, palms down, into his lap. He didn't want to press his luck, so he sat straight-backed and silent for the rest of the trip, a full two and a half hours. He knew they were reaching their destination when they made a series of turns in rapid succession. The van stopped and through the grate, CR heard the jangle of keys, doors opening, and shoes on asphalt. He and the guards sat for another ten minutes, during which time CR heard voices outside the van. Finally, the back doors opened, and he felt a blast of hot air. A man in a police uniform with a stubbly beard stood next to a blonde-haired woman.

"So that's CR-S01?" the man asked. He scratched his chin. "Doesn't look like much to me."

"Don't be fooled, Chief Hayes. He's incredibly dangerous," the woman replied.

Hayes chuckled. "Well, I'm sure my men can take care of him, Miss Delora." He glanced at the guards in the van. "Rifles, huh? Didn't bring any of those. Looks like our budget isn't quite as big as yours."

"The federal government takes terrorism very seriously," Agent Delora said pointedly, but her comment was directed to CR. "My guards can accompany you if you wish."

"That won't be necessary. We take crime every bit as seriously as the FBI, I assure you." There was barely concealed contempt in his voice. He cocked his head. "Crawford, get your men over here."

A group of police officers approached. Hayes looked back at CR. "Stand up, kid. Hands behind your back, while you're at it."

He did as he was told.

"Good. Come on out, nice and easy."

He stepped out of the van, and an officer grabbed each arm. "Go with Crawford, now. What he says goes, got it?" CR nodded shyly. "Alright, then. Excuse me, Miss Delora. Gotta get rid of some of these damn journalists." He sauntered off.

The man CR assumed was Crawford took the lead, and two more officers led the rear. It was stiflingly hot outside, and a river of sweat ran down CR's back just from walking. Crawford walked quickly, and he stumbled over his shackles to keep up. He fell several feet behind, and Crawford turned around. "What's the hold up?" CR looked down fearfully, and Crawford followed his gaze. "Oh. Got your legs all tied up, don't they? Well, suppose the feds know best..." He began walking again, but more slowly this time.

They rounded a corner where four police cars were parked. At once, a crowd began screaming. CR looked at the opposite sidewalk.

A gaggle of people, more people than he had ever seen before, shoved against each other and the partition that kept them off the street. Hayes was standing in front of the middle of the crowd, waving his arms and shouting at a mass of reporters, some with cameras and recorders, and others with only a pen and paper. Fanning out from the journalists were various other groups, many holding signs. He saw the Concerned Citizens of Portland, the Maine Protection Coalition, and the Cumberland Victims Association, among others. Everyone was screaming, and though he could only pick out a few words and phrases, they were all insults hurled at him.

"Murderer!"

"Terrorist!"

"You killed my son!"

Someone handed Hayes a megaphone. "This is a secure zone!" he roared. "Anyone attempting to cross the partition will be arrested and charged with obstruction of justice and aiding and abetting a fugitive!" His proclamation was met with renewed screams of protest. CR saw one woman burst into tears.

The police officer tugged his arm, drawing his attention away from the crowd. The door to the second car from the front was open. The officer nudged CR inside and sat down next to him. Crawford got in the driver's seat. The procession started, one car in front of CR, two in back, just like with the officers. CR stared out of the window disbelievingly. The street was cordoned off for miles, and the crowds weren't growing any thinner.

"Where am I?" he asked nervously.

"Boston."


	5. Bastard Child of the Law

**Title:** Bastard Child of the Law

**Rating:** K+/T

**Summary:** To deprive a man of his natural liberty and to deny to him the ordinary amenities of life is worse then starving the body; it is starvation of the soul, the dweller in the body. - Mohandas Gandhi

**A/N:** I'm sorry, guys. I am so, so sorry, that no matter how many times I apologize, I will never convey to you how truly sorry I am. I had so much trouble, and that's not an excuse, but it's the best I've got. I love you guys. You rock. You are what makes this happen. Seriously, even though it's been half a year, I've still been getting hits and reviews, and you have no idea how much that means to me. I just want to tell you that I am still out there, alive, living and breathing, and most importantly, writing. I am not giving up, and I know I can count on you guys to stick with me, too, however long it takes. I will update. I can't promise when, because you guys know how I am, but I have more chapters in progress. Please please please review, or subscribe, or favorite me, or whatever, because I love getting notification emails. They lift my heart. This chapter is dedicated to Will, who's probably reading this. And, well, that... kind of embarrasses me. XD

* * *

CR lay on the bunk in his cell, enjoying the feeling of a full stomach. The amount of food he had been given seemed to him excessive, but he had gladly eaten as much as he could. He was disappointed to discover that this wasn't very much; he had barely finished half the plate when he felt full. He had tried to take a few more bites, but he found himself disgusted just looking at the food again. When he'd stood up to indicate he was ready to leave, one of the guards raised his eyebrows in surprise. CR saw him, and he knew CR had seen him, so the guard quickly lowered his gaze. CR thought he almost saw pity in his eyes as he did so.

But now he was back in his solitary cell, and the food was beginning to make him sleepy. Still, he couldn't force thoughts of the guard from his mind. Concern? From these huge stoic men? He certainly wasn't _that_ pathetic. He clasped his arms over his stomach, the way one might arrange a corpse, and imagined he could feel his belly bulging with fullness. In reality, his stomach was completely smooth.

CR couldn't take it anymore. He hopped up, hands already grasping the bottom hem of his shirt. His head bobbed back and forth, darted this way and that as he shuffled up to the dirty rusted pole that supported a corner of the bunk, trying to find the best view. At last he found a relatively clean patch, and he slowly, fearfully, lifted his shirt.

He couldn't breathe.

His chest was flat and gaunt. He could make out several of his ribs, and he palpated them lightly. They were alarmingly shallow. He stared in shock for several seconds, then, disgusted, hastily pulled his shirt back down, but he couldn't unsee the horror. It could be worse. He remembered pictures, starving children in Africa. It could be so much worse. It wasn't that bad, but somehow it was, just seeing it on himself. How could he not have noticed?

He caught sight of his face in the reflection from the pole. His hair... He ran his fingers through his hair, wincing at each knot he yanked out. His hand came back covered with loose, greasy strands. He squinted, looking intently at his reflection. His didn't recognize himself. Before, when he still had amnesia, perhaps it wouldn't have been so shocking. But now, even with the precious few memories he'd regained, he had a sense of identity. He had an idea of what he was supposed to look like. This wasn't it.

God, why hadn't he looked at himself before? There were so many opportunities at Resurgam. Maybe he had seen but hadn't realized. Maybe he hadn't recognized himself, just as he didn't now. The thought was disturbing.

He ran his hands over his face desperately, pleadingly. He took in every contour, every angle, every wrinkle, every imperfection. He greedily drank up each drop of information until he was almost drunk on the knowledge of his own face. It was disgusting; he hated it, hated how malnourished and angular and ugly everything felt. He hated having to rediscover his own face, but it was ecstasy, finally knowing.

He didn't know how long it had been when he finally stopped. It felt like it had been an eternity. He brought his trembling hands down and was suddenly aware of someone watching him. Two guards were staring, both incredulous. When CR looked their way, the first guard, a smaller mousy man, looked away embarrassed, while the other larger man scowled in annoyance.

"CR-S01. Get over here."

CR practically scurried over to the gate of the cell. He didn't make eye contact with the guards. How long had they been watching him? They surely thought he was insane now. That would suit him, wouldn't it? The crazy Cumberland killer.

The guard had handcuffed him and was leading him with a stiff grip on his wrist. They twisted and turned through the prison labryinth, seeing very few prisoners. Finally they came to a much wider hall lined with rooms. Each room had a plain gray door, but at about waist height, the front wall of each room was made of clear glass. Through the glass CR could see each room contained a table and two low chairs, and sitting in one of the chairs in the room next to him was Anthony. Sure enough, the guards stopped in front of that door, unlocked it, and shoved CR inside.

Anthony smiled his devilish ear-to-ear grin as CR entered. His pearly teeth somehow managed to gleam even in the meager half-light of the room. He swept his arm in a grandiose gesture, indicating that CR should sit. CR sat solemnly, placing his cuffed hands on top of the table. Anthony, brimming with pride, placed his hands behind his head, and almost looked ready to prop his legs up on the table, if it wouldn't have been incredibly uncomfortable. He didn't say a word, choosing instead to stare at CR expectantly. When CR barely looked at him, Anthony narrowed his eyes.

"C'mon, kid. I expected a little more of a response than that. No 'Wow, Anthony', or 'You're the best, Anthony'? I don't even get so much as a thank you!" Anthony sighed dramatically, slouching in his chair.

CR sat up, alarmed. Of course he should be thanking him! "I'm sorry, Mr. Craft. Thank you for-..." For what now?

Anthony chuckled. He waved his hand dismissively. "I'm just joshing ya, kid. I bet you don't even know what I did." He leaned forward excitedly and placed his elbows on the table, the perfect picture of a schoolgirl with a juicy piece of gossip, and when he spoke, his voice was an excited whisper. "Appeals usually take years, kid. There's so much red tape, especially with high profile cases. But ol'Anthony here used that to his advantage." Here he paused to laugh heartily. "Things like this, they catch people's attention, you know? With the way your case has been screwed up, it's a miracle they got a conviction. Anyone takes a serious look at this case, and they know that. Well, I kicked up a shitstorm, and now we're talking a lot of important people starting to consider your situation. Media, government, even the ACLU; The whole nine yards, kid! The FBI hopes that they can keep this out of the public eye, and that if they do, they'll win and you'll disappear. But it's too late. They fell right into our trap! Now everybody's paying attention, and they've got themselves locked in a court date a few days from now! There's no clever stunt they can pull to get themselves out of this one!"

CR-S01 was so excited that he could barely sit still. "Th-then I'll be decleared innocent?"

Anthony scoffed disbelievingly. "Well, now, kid, I didn't say that. I'm a lawyer, not a miracle worker. The only thing an appeals court can do is overturn the verdict. Basically, you're still guilty, but there's nothing the law can do about it."

"But-!" CR looked crushed. Anthony almost felt bad about interrupting him.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You're innocent. You'll have to take that one up with the court of public opinion. Who knows, maybe some of them will even be willing to listen to you."

Anthony's attempt at humor was not reciprocated. CR was more downcast than ever. Anthony tried a different approach.

"Well, look at the bright side, kid. I've filed for immediate release, and they'll grant it. When they do, that's it. Over and done with. You can go back to Portland, put all this crap behind you."

That seemed to lift CR's mood for a moment, but just as Anthony thought he had suceeded, the kid was frowning despondently at the table again. Anthony clicked his tongue. "What is it now?"

"How will I get back to Portland?" He licked his lips, which were suddenly very dry. "How do I... put this behind me?" He thought about the crowd, about everyone yelling at him. To say they were furious wouldn't begin to describe it. He thought about them, packed behind the partition like so many squirming sardines. What would they do if there was no concrete wall?

CR-S01 felt incredibly small.

"I guess you saw that, didn't you? All those people, screaming and crying at you." Anthony had only guessed at what CR was thinking, but he seemed to have hit the nail on the head. CR swallowed. He couldn't speak. He and Anthony fidgeted in the awkward silence for a bit.

Anthony tried to toss out his next question casually despite the tense atmosphere. "So, you know some guy named Freebird?"

"Dr. Freebird?" Surprisingly, that innocent comment had captured CR's full attention. He was interested, and Anthony thought he could see the beginning of a smile at the edge of the kid's eyes. Relieved, Anthony quickly pursued that line of conversation.

"Yeah, he and Cunningham are down here. I saw them yesterday. I knew Cunningham was coming down, but he didn't tell me he was bringing backup. That man's huge."

"That's Dr. Freebird." CR was smiling dumbly, distracted by his pleasent memories of the two men. For the moment, all his previous depression seemed forgotten.

Anthony cleared his throat. He really had to wrap this up. "Well, they're your ticket back to Portland. You'll be safe, at least. I really can't help you with the rest of that stuff, though. I'm just a lawyer. A bastard child of the law."

"Who said that?"

"Some woman shouted it at me on my way here."

"Oh. Will they...?" His voice trailed off, scared and unsure again. Anthony wished he had never said anything.

"No. They'll call you much, much worse." Anthony laughed, but it did nothing to relieve the tension in the air. They lapsed into silence again, and with each moment, Anthony was growing increasingly uncomfortable. At last, he stood up. "I guess I'll be going, then. Appeal'll be soon. Look forward to it." He patted CR on the shoulder as he left.

The guard slid past Anthony and stood in the doorway, ready to take CR back to his cell.


	6. The Appeal

**Title:** The Appeal

**Rating:** K+

**Summary:** The truth brings with it a great deal of absolution, always. - R.D. Laing

**A/N:** Yes, I am awesome. Yes, you do love me. Yes, I do want you to favorite and/or review this story. This chapter is dedicated to my AP Calculus teacher, Mr. Johnson, who cares WHY math works, shows interest in Professor Layton, and keeps the room well-stocked with Lifesavers. He has a master's in mathematics and deigns to teach high-schoolers calculus. We should all aspire to such noble goals.

* * *

"Your Honor, you have already received the defense's brief regarding this case, as well as several amicus briefs, including one from the doctors of Resurgam First Care." Anthony paced casually in front of the judge's bench. After a few seconds, he stopped. "To begin my formal argument, I would like to call my first witness."

"I'm aware, Mr. Craft. Bailiff, please bring in the witness."

The bailiff led someone to the stand. CR didn't see who. Anthony had told him to keep his head down, and he had no problem doing so.

"Please state your name for the court," the judge instructed.

"My name is Agent Ian Holden, of the United States Federal Bureau of Investigations."

CR lifted his head, shocked. He barely recognized Holden on the stand without his sunglasses. His dark eyes were sad, and there were bags under them. His gaze was fixed stoically on some point on the far wall, above the gallery. He refused to look at CR.

"What is it you wish to tell the court, Mr. Holden?"

"I'm here to testify to the mistreatment of Prisoner Number CR-S01 by federal and local agents before, during, and after his arrest."

"No," CR whispered. He shook his head and shouted. "No!"

Everyone stared at him.

"Mr. Craft?" the judge asked. "Is there a conflict with your client?"

"Of course not, Your Honor." Anthony came over to CR and leaned over the defense's bench. "Listen, kid," he hissed. "Holden's doing this of his own free will. One more outburst like that and they'll hold you in contempt. Keep your mouth shut."

He didn't give CR time to reply before swiftly walking away. "Please begin your testimony, Agent Holden."

Holden didn't hesitate. "Your Honor, I was the first federal agent to arrive at Cumberland School of Medicine, the scene of the Cumberland Incident, and I was given permission by my superiors to take command of the forces on scene." He spoke quickly, in short, clipped phrases. His eyes got this distant, glazed look, as though his mind were somewhere very far away. He seemed to have memorized his entire testimony. "After decontamination teams declared the area safe, my men and I searched for survivors. The defendant, CR-S01, was the only person we found alive.

"He was immediately restrained, though he posed no visible threat. He appeared to be extremely disoriented. Despite the nature of the attack on Cumberland, and the empty syringe we discovered near his location, S01 was never asked about his physical condition or offered any medical assistance. He was forcibly taken back to our base of operations at Cumberland, in one of the dormitory lobbies. Without any formal charges against him, he was handcuffed and interrogated. He was not read his rights until several hours after questioning began.

"During the interrogation, officers, including myself, insinuated that the defendant was guilty, and that he was the only possible perpetrator. We described in detail the bodies of the victims to make him uncomfortable. Several officers threw chairs across the room and hit the defendant with their fists. S01, after having said numerous times that he remembered nothing, finally admitted to having caused the incident. He was arrested and transported to the Cumberland County Jail.

"The defendant was in no position to afford council, and council was appointed for him. At this point, I was the federal agent in charge of the investigation. The council I observed made no attempts to protect the rights of S01, and, after having fraternized with prosecutors, accepted the first plea bargain. I did not try to obtain better council.

"CR-S01 was transported to the supermax sector of Maine State Prison. I remained in charge of the defendant. The defendant was confined, for the duration of his sentence, to a dimly lit 12 foot by 12 foot room with no furnishings except a bench and a metal bunk. The room was kept at thirty-three and one half degrees Fahrenheit and less than 2% humidity to prevent the cultivation of harmful bacteria. S01 was allowed no human interaction. Every eight hours, he was brought out of his cell for a meal, and to relieve himself. The guards were under strict orders never to speak with the defendant. He was under conditions comparable to constant solitary confinement."

Holden stopped. His eyes slowly came back into focus, and he blinked slowly, once, twice, three times. CR felt faint. He dimly noticed that Holden was trembling.

Anthony was smirking. "Is that all, Agent Holden?"

"Yes."

Anthony waved his hand and sauntered back to sit next to CR at the defense's bench. "People may cross examine."

The judge nodded at a man seated across the room from CR and Anthony. "Your witness, Mr. Abberton."

Mr. Abberton, a short, plump, red-faced man stood. For a moment, he stared at Holden with his squinty little eyes, but Holden took no notice of him, just like he had done with CR. Abruptly, Mr. Abberton marched up to the stand.

"Mr. Holden... What exactly is your position at the FBI?"

Holden set his lip into a determined frown. "I'm a field agent for the Criminal Investigations Division."

"That wasn't the case a couple of months ago, though, was it?"

The unexpected question made Holden jump.

Anthony sprung up. "Objection! Relevance?"

Abberton spun on his heel to face the judge, already prepared with a retort. "I'm about to establish relevance, Your Honor."

"...I suppose I'll allow it." The judge made a face as he said this, like there was something unpleasant in his mouth. "Objection overruled."

The crack of the gavel sent all eyes back to Holden, who swallowed anxiously. He looked immensely uncomfortable. "I-uh, no. No, it wasn't."

"What was your position, then?"

Holden didn't answer. He was completely pale, and his eyes twitched around the room furtively, only making him more wildly nervous.

"Your Honor, please instruct the witness to answer the question."

"Mr. Holden, I'm going to have to ask you to answer that."

"I was, um, in an executive position in the Counterterrorism Division."

"You were demoted." It was barely a question.

Holden hesitated again, and Abberton was on him again in a heartbeat. "Your Honor, permission to treat the witness as hostile."

"_Objection_!" Anthony was up again, slamming his palms against the table. He was shaking with rage.

The judge seemed to share Anthony's distaste. "Don't push it, Mr. Abberton. I'm already waiting for you to establish relevance."

Abberton bowed his head. "I'm getting there, Your Honor." He addressed Holden again. "Mr. Holden? Were you demoted?"

"Well, I wouldn't-"

"You were in an executive post at a prestigious division, and now you're a field agent. You went from a higher position to a lower position. Isn't that a demotion?"

"I was asked to resign my position and return to the field." He tried to say this with confidence, but it sounded like he was still trying to convince himself.

"Did that make you angry?"

"Objection!"

The judge didn't even wait for a reply from Abberton. "Sustained. I think we've had enough of this line of questioning."

"Just a few more, Your Honor, please. I can still establish relevance."

"...Fine. A few more questions. But I'm losing patience, Mr. Abberton."

"I'm sorry, Your Honor." He jumped back on Holden with dogged determination. "Mr. Holden, can you tell us why you were asked to resign? Why you aren't the agent in charge of CR-S01 anymore?"

The brief reprieve seemed to have let Holden regain his composure. "That information is highly sensitive-"

But Abberton cut him off before he could even finish a full sentence. "Isn't it true that CR-S01 had struck a deal with the federal government that he could perform certain difficult or high profile surgeries in order to gain time off his sentence?"

"Yes, but that system was already in place several years ago-"

Again. "Is it also true that, starting about twelve months ago, CR-S01 began performing an increased number of surgeries, and was rapidly working off his remaining time?"

"An increased number of surgeries, yes, but-"

And again. "And all these surgeries had to be approved, didn't they?"

Holden had been getting more and more frustrated. CR could see the anger building in his eyes each time he was interrupted. But suddenly that was gone. In an instant, Holden had realized that he couldn't win, and that crushed him. He lowered his eyes, and his voice. It came out reluctantly, apologetically. "...Yes."

"By who?"

"...Me."

"Because you were in an executive position."

"...Yes."

"And about nine months after this drastic increase in number of procedures performed, you were asked to resign from your executive position."

"...Yes." This wasn't the Holden CR knew at all.

Abberton sneered contemptously as he sat down. "That's all the questions I have for this witness, You Honor."

The judge glanced sideways at Holden. He looked like he wanted to apologize, but he couldn't. Instead, he simply said, "Thank you for your testimony, Agent Holden. The court will take it into consideration. You may depart."

"Thank you, Your Honor."

When Holden stood up, a rush of whispers came from the gallery. Holden walked straight towards the crowd. As he passed, he glanced at the defense's bench, and an emotion CR couldn't quite recognize flashed across his face. He seemed almost... resigned. He muscled his way to the doors of the courtroom, and a gang of reporters hustled after him.

CR felt sick. There was a lump of something squirming in his stomach, worming its way up his esophagus. He was afraid he would throw up. Anthony was speaking with the judge, but their words meant nothing to him. He stared silently at the desk in front of him for the duration of the appeal.


	7. Adjourned

**Title:** Adjourned

**Rating:** T

**Summary:** An appeal is when you ask one court to show its contempt for another court. - Finely Peter Dunne

**A/N:** What do you say when there's nothing to be said? One of those great philosophical questions. I suppose we'll never really know. At any rate, a very happy Turkey Day to all my American peeps out there, and a happy Thursday to everyone else. Stay cool, my friends. Stay cool. Clarissa Gavin out.

**[FOOD FOR THOUGHT]** Ever since I read MidsummerNiteDreamer's review for my fic, Making Progress, I have wondered whether or not the fictional town of Portland exists in Maryland or Maine. I was firmly in the Maine camp until recently, when some new facts came to light. Here I make the arguments for both sides. You can decide for yourself, but know that both this story and Making Progress will continue to take place in Maine.

**Maine:** There is a real city there called Portland. It is located in Cumberland county. The town motto is Resurgam (which, if you didn't know, is Latin for "I will rise again.")  
**Maryland:** The game booklet says this. There is a city called Cumberland located there. Most importantly, the HQ of USAMRIID is located at Fort Derick, two hours east of Cumberland. USAMRIID is the government organization for which army researcher Samuel Trumbull (Proud One) works, and its HQ in Maryland is perhaps the location of the entire mission.  
Both states start with the letter "M". Both states lie within the range of normal monarch butterfly migration patterns.

I expect to see you guys duking this out in the reviews. Don't disappoint me, folks.

* * *

CR paid very little attention to the rest of the trial. He spent most of the next several hours thinking about Holden. He hated how that prosecutor had treated him, but mostly he hated himself for getting Holden involved. Anthony's words about it being Holden's choice echoed in his mind, but they did little to ease his guilt. Of course CR wanted to get out of jail, but it wasn't fair that Holden had to disgrace himself in court so he could be free. He'd have rather stayed in jail than subject Holden to this. He wished there was some way he could have told Holden that before he went and destroyed his life, but even as he thought this, CR knew that nothing he could have said to Holden would have made a difference; the man was too stubborn and righteous – CR would know, he'd spent six years with the man.

He was dimly aware of Anthony calling more witnesses, and Abberton calling his, and then each man gave a speech. From the snippets he did hear, CR had to admit that Anthony seemed to be a very skillful attorney. He even managed to combine his remarkable wit and rhetoric with a cool, almost carefree demeanor. Except for that one impassioned outburst during Holden's cross examination, Anthony always seemed easygoing. He sauntered leisurely about the courtroom as he spoke, and he made his speech sound effortless, as though he were making it up on the spot. On the other hand, Abberton was extremely serious, perhaps too much so. When he walked - which he hardly did, preferring to stand stoically in front of the judge's bench - he strutted with an arrogant purpose. Every word he spoke came out with an angry deliberateness. CR was sure he preferred Anthony. He just hoped the judge did, too.

When Anthony and Abberton were done with their speeches, the judge called a twenty minute recess. The crowd of people in the gallery stood and left to stretch their legs, and after arranging some papers in his briefcase, Anthony started to leave as well. When CR noticed Anthony's intentions, he was suddenly alarmed, and turned to look at his attorney worriedly; Anthony looked back, grinning his huge, self-satisfied grin and called, "I'm just going out to judge the mood, kid. I wanna know what we'll be dealing with when we're trying to get you out of here." He said this rather loudly, and smirked at Abberton as he did so. The prosecutor glowered at Anthony, and when Anthony was gone, he scowled at CR. CR didn't look back; he still kept Anthony's advice about keeping his head down in mind.

Those twenty minutes were the longest and most nerve-wracking of CR's entire life. The excitement and angst running through him was even enough to distract him from his thoughts of Holden. Despite the obviously optimistic connotation of Anthony's words, CR couldn't believe the judge would overturn his guilty verdict. This was more than he could have ever hoped for. Just over a month ago, all he'd had to look forward to was the eventual commutation of his sentence. Now he was the center of a national court case; he was (hopefully) about to be declared innocent in the eyes of the law. As he sat through those twenty agonizing minutes, he wasn't sure if that was a good thing. Before all this, he'd have given anything to fight his conviction. But now, with all the hatred directed towards him, he wondered if that wasn't just a wild fantasy. After all, no matter what he hoped, it was just like Anthony had said; whatever the judge's decision was, it wasn't really a declaration of innocence. It wouldn't change how the public viewed him. Nothing would. Except perhaps time. With time, the memory of his crime may have dissipated; that commutation wasn't looking so bad now. At least it would have assured a relatively quite release, and then a slow fading into anonymity. But that wasn't really an option since Holden had left, was it?

CR couldn't deny that he disliked all the attention his case was now getting. Still, if this was the price of freedom...

Anthony returned just before the recess was due to end. He slid into his seat next to CR, flashing him a smile. CR jumped; he had been so deep in thought that he hadn't noticed people beginning to file back into the courtroom. Anthony chuckled and gave his client a friendly pat on the back. CR smiled shakily at him, trying to appear as confident as Anthony looked. Soon the judge returned; the entire room stood in unison, and sat only when His Honor himself instructed them to. When the shuffling of feet and chairs had quieted, the judge spoke.

"In the case of the appeal of the State of Maine v. Prisoner Number CR-S01, would the defendant please rise."

Anthony had his hand on CR's wrist, and gently pulled him into a standing position. CR peered nervously up at the judge. The solemn man was stroking his stubbly salt-and-pepper beard.

"Throughout this appeal," he began gravely, "the grievous mishandling of this case, by all parties involved, has become increasingly apparent. It is thus-"

Abberton slammed his hands against his desk as he jumped up. "Your Honor, I-"

"Mr. Abberton!" The judge cut him off sharply. Abberton bit his tongue in surprise, which shut him up, at least for the moment. He continued to stare intently at the judge. CR could see the venom in his glare.

The judge stared him down. "Mr. Abberton. My decision has already been made. If you would like to discuss it with me, you may do so in chambers, after court is adjourned. Please be seated, or I will hold you in contempt of court." It was mere seconds before the prosecutor backed off. He shrank down into his chair.

"It is thus the opinion of this court that the verdict of guilty pronounced by the lower court is found unconstitutional, and is overturned."

There was a whirlwind of motion. The gallery, which had been deathly still, sprang to life. People were screaming and crying; CR didn't dare look away from the judge's bench, but he heard them. He knew they were shoving each other and the bailiffs, trying desperately to reach the courtroom floor, trying to reach him. The judge cracked his gavel down harshly, again and again, demanding order, but it was in vain.

CR couldn't think, he could barely breathe; his legs were shaking like branches in a storm, ready to snap at any moment, but Anthony held him up. Anthony gave his wrist a reassuring squeeze, and CR knew he must be grinning like an idiot, the asshole, but CR couldn't even find the strength to care; all that was going through his head was "free," one word, "free, free, free," and it was awful and frightening and wonderful all at the same time.

Nothing happened for the longest time, at least not as far as CR knew; he was filled with thoughts of the judge's momentous decision. He was hardly able to comprehend what had just happened, because with the sudden realization that he was free came also the realization that he had no idea what freedom meant; he was terrified and humbled by all the new prospects that suddenly presented themselves to him. When he came back to reality it was only in response to a small pinch by Anthony, and he was immediately struck by the eerie silence of the courtroom. He looked up at the judge, who still seemed a bit flustered and annoyed, as he spoke again.

"Mr. Craft, you've filed for immediate release, and I've seen fit to grant it, if only to prevent this man from suffering any more abuses at the hands of the law. Bailiff-" Here he turned his attention to the guard closest to the defense's bench. "-Please remove the prisoner's handcuffs."

The bailiff obeyed, and CR brought his stiff and shaking hands to rest at his side. There were no more screams of protest from the crowd; when CR caught a glimpse of the gallery, he realized that this was only because there was hardly anyone left.

CR turned hesitantly back towards the judge. He was starting straight at CR, who began to sweat under the judge's piercing gaze. He understood why Abberton had been so intimidated.

"CR-S01... Mister, ah, Sartre, was it?" The tired old man's eyes softened almost imperceptibly when he said this.

CR gulped and nodded hesitantly.

"Mr. Sartre... I'm sorry. Court is adjourned."


End file.
